Sermon from Grace and St. Stephen's 12/23/18

Monday morning is my time.  All of the other days are full of work, kids and other commitments, but Monday morning from 8:30-11:30 am my youngest is in school and I have some time to do what I choose.  So Monday morning was to be my time to work on this sermon.  I walked my oldest to school and as I am eating my breakfast my youngest comes to me coughing and with snot coming out of his nose saying he can’t go to school.   “Ok” I say “but if you stay home mommy can’t play with you because I have to work and you can’t have any sweets all day and we can’t go to see the Lights at the Zoo tonight.”  He agrees.  So I start digging into the scripture trying to focus and of course I am constantly interrupted by requests, questions and comments.  I can’t help but smile a bit when he only cracks the door and whispers as if that is less of an interruption.  But by the fifth interruption I was super frustrated. 

          As my level of frustration was rising with every footstep running down the hall, I was also sitting there looking at these scriptures for today and … quite honestly finding them to be super frustrating as well.  I mean I love the Magnificat or the song of Mary from Luke’s Gospel today, but reading it in the context of the other scriptures today I found it blaringly frustrating. 

          The Psalm today is Psalm 80 and the people are begging God for help.  They are begging God to please stop being angry and please hear their prayers.  It says that they are eating bread of tears with bowls of tears to drink as their enemies laugh at them.  It is raw, painful and honest.  It is also urgent.

         And then we read the passage from Luke, this beautiful hymn from Mary, which, like Psalm 80 is Hebrew poetry, a hymn in the same style- meant to allude to the ancient Psalms.  That connection would have been clear for the original Jewish audience.  It might be understood as a response to the pleas and prayers in the Psalms, a fulfillment of the hopes and dreams, an embodiment of the longed for salvation of which the psalmists wrote. 

          So, just to be clear, that means that basically God hears these pleas and prayers in Psalm 80 and is like “it’s ok, in over 1000 years a teenager of no social standing will have a baby and he will be hated and killed on a cross …. So take comfort in that as you drink your tears.”

          I don’t know if that was the answer they were looking for. When I pray I hope that my prayers will be heard right away and all the more with bowls full of tears and enemies encroaching.  So the seemingly distant and delayed response is frustrating.

          And then we have these words of the Magnificat- the mighty thrown down, the lowly lifted up, the hungry fed, the proud scattered-  these beautiful words, these words of justice and hope.  I hear them and I look around at what this world is and that justice and hope is hard to see.  I read these words of justice and hope in a world full of injustices and despair and it feels … frustrating. 

          Frustrating because what is on the news is not the lowly being lifted up and the hungry fed but rather the face of a seven year old girl, the age of my son, and she has died of dehydration trying to cross the border into this country.  And a story about how over 85,000 children have starved to death in Yemen.  And while we argue about who is to blame and the solution is unclear- what is clear is that the hungry continue to not be fed, and the lowly are not lifted up and it feels … frustrating.

          And if that is too distant than just outside of our doors are people struggling to survive these cold winter months.  In our own front yard are hungry people not fed, lowly people not lifted up and it feels … frustrating.  The scales are still tipped to the rich and the few waste food while the many go hungry and so these words of Mary, this hopeful song does not seem to match reality … a reality that is frustrating.

          With these thoughts wrestling about in my mind as I am working on this sermon I am interrupted again.  My four year old tells me that the mailman is here and asks if he can give him the chocolate covered pretzel we bought at the church bake sale.  So I open the door and he runs across the yard in bare feet and the mailman says thank you and my son bounces in delight and comes back with a smile. And I feel a little less frustrated.  Then my brother in law messages that he will be bringing my husband’s grandma down from Ohio to Texas so we can all be together after Christmas.  And I feel a little less frustrated.  And I get a message from two more people willing to volunteer at the school for the health screenings when I thought we would never find anyone who could help.  And I feel a little less frustrated. Then I get a call from the school asking if the special needs teacher can have a school shirt from the PTA because a kid threw up on her as she was caring for him and as I hand her the shirt I see her smiling face, hear her appreciative words, see how the sick child with special needs has been cared for and I feel less frustrated.  And I look around and see Christmas trees and twinkle lights and people all around me celebrating the birth of a savior born to lowly parents with a challenging message of self-sacrifice and deep love.  And all around me I see people who live in a frustrating world with frustrations mounting and yet walk the path of justice laid out by Christ.  And the frustrations fall into the background as signs of love and kindness become clearer.  I forget that I was frustrated as the sun goes down and sends a beautiful pink glow on a world full of people loving each other and serving Christ through their actions. 

          Being a youth pastor again has reminded me of just how much hope there is for the world we live in.  Often young people are characterized as uncaring, undisciplined, violent or weak and yet as I work with the teens of our church I find young people who care deeply, are thoughtful, intelligent, work hard and are generous with each other.  They have many frustrations and deal with a variety of struggles and yet their hearts are full of love and possibility.  It is inspiring and nurtures my hope.  It makes it easier to see God’s daily work toward justice and peace and harder to let the frustrations dominate my worldview. 

          Today we hear the words of an unwed pregnant teenager living 2000 years ago under an oppressive government and with few resources, certainly with her share of frustrations.  And her words ring out over the years, over the generations- her words of hope; her words of God’s acts of love, justice and mercy in the past, in the present and in the future.  She tells us who God was for those people singing Psalm 80 drinking their tears and crying out to a God who did listen, who was with them and who lived in relationship with them for generations.  She tells us who God is for us today in the midst of our frustrations, in the midst of our pain in the midst of our world and who God will be thousands of years from now.  And we call her blessed.

          Sometimes the work of justice, the work of God, the hope of the world is hard to see, sometimes it is buried under frustration, under injustices, under pain, under tears … sometimes you need to squint to see it, you need a magnifying glass to behold it and then when you do you recognize it as what has been, is and will be, what is all around us, what is in us and what knits us together.  And Mary’s song, Mary’s soul, magnifies the Lord, it is that magnifying glass making clear what seems hidden. 

          In her book Love Warrior, Glennon Melton writes about a conversion experience she had.  Her parents sent her to a priest after she told them that she was still an alcoholic with an eating disorder and had just had an abortion.  She goes to a church she has never been in and writes of her experience of Mary:

“I look up higher and see that I am standing beneath a huge painting of Mary holding her baby.  I look at Mary and she looks at me.  My heart does not leap, it does not thud- it swells and beats steadily, insistently.  My heart fills my whole chest but does not hurt, so I do not break eye contact with Mary.  Mary is lit up bright but I am in soft, forgiving light.  She is wearing a gown and her face is clear.  I am wearing a tube top and my face is dirty, but she is not mad at me so I do not bother to cover myself.  Mary is not what people think she is.  She and I are the same.  She loves me, I know it.  She has been waiting for me.  She is my mother.  She is my mother without any fear for me.  I sit in front of her and I want to stay here forever, in my bare feet, with Mary and her baby around this campfire of candle prayers … She is what I needed.  She is the hiding place I’ve been looking for.”

          Mary is a young woman of rebellion, courage and hope who can see God in the midst of frustration, who can sing joy even as she plays her part in a story of loss and death.  Her soul magnifies the grace of our God who looks at an imperfect people and an imperfect world and continues to plant seeds of justice, who continues to move our hearts to love and peace. 

          Christmas is almost here.  A savior born in a lowly manger to parents of no social standing is about to come.  A vulnerable baby with few resources laid in a feeding trough.  So take out your magnifying glasses because if you look closely, if you look past the frustrations and pain and sorrow you can see that this baby born to an unwed teenager is God made flesh.  Emmanuel.   

Life's Journey ... with Death

I'm tucking in my 7 year old and I can see on his face that something is wrong. I ask him what he is thinking about. The corners of his mouth start pushing down even though he is tying to hold back his sadness. When he gets tired the emotions tend to defeat his efforts at holding them back. After some questioning and encouragement the tears start to fall as he tells me he is scared that his grandma will die soon. His grandma just moved to our city and he is loving having her around. I want to push the emotions away so that he won't feel sad and can get a good night's sleep. I offer some feeble attempts: we need to enjoy the time we have with her here, she is doing really well and will probably live a long time, we don't have to be afraid of death, etc. Then I pause and get real. I say, “I understand. Death is scary. It is hard to love people so much knowing that they will die.” I explain to him that when I was a kid sometimes I would see my mom holding a photograph of her mother who died when my mom was sixteen and she would be crying. I used to get really scared that my mom would die and since it was the days before cell phones if she was ever late coming home from work I would be a wreck. So I get it.

This isn't the first time my son has had these kinds of questions and thoughts. He has two clergy for parents and so funerals are a common topic in our house, plus he goes to mainline churches which typically have a higher average age so he has known many beloved church members that have died. All of this paired with his deep thinking and intuitive nature means he has had some hard questions in his less than a decade of life. I so desperately want to say all the right things because I believe that our early understandings and perceptions about death have a big impact on our lives. I remember interviewing a candidate for ministry when I was on the District Committee on Ministry and he said that when he was young and afraid of scary things his mother said “you don't have to be afraid of death because Jesus is with us and we will be with God and it will be fine.” This brought him a lot of clarity and comfort and it informed his theology into adulthood. I want to be that mom that says the right thing that will give my child confidence, strength, faith and hope. But I also want to be honest and let him feel what he is feeling without shame or dismissal.

So I think over my own history with death. I remember funerals of great grandparents and grand parents. I remember when I was very young and the next door neighbor's son died in a motorcycle accident. Everyone was gathered together on her porch with tear stained cheeks and long faces and all the neighborhood kids were playing together with occasional questions and moments of sadness. It felt heavy and big.

I remember when I was in high school and got home from taking the ACT exam and my mom told me that my cousin died in a car accident along with her father and half sister. I remember how deep the tears felt, how weird it was when I went to work at the Dairy Queen some hours later and cars were still driving by … as if nothing had changed. I remember everybody packing up the cars and making a caravan to be with my aunt and cousins and prepare for the funeral.

Years later in seminary I did CPE or Clinical Pastoral Education, what is essentially a full time, twelve week internship as a hospital chaplain. My classmates talked about their first deaths on the hospital floor and I tried to mentally prepare myself. When it was my turn for overnights sometimes the pager would go off but it was mostly for spouses and loved ones overcome with emotions. Weeks into the program and I was one of the few that hadn't been with someone during or immediately after the last breath. It would be strange to say I wanted to and honestly I didn't, but I did think it was an important experience to have in order to be prepared for church ministry. Then one night I was awakened by the beeping pager as I slept in the hospital apartment bed. I threw on the clothes I had laid out, pulled my hair back and walked over to the floor that called. I got the information sheet with the stats: 89 year old male and asked if there were any family. There was none. I went to the room and waited outside while the doctor and nurses chatted over resuscitation efforts. They talked about a show they had watched, made casual conversation and got quiet when they saw me as they left. I walked in and here it was, death. It was not the heartfelt moment of movies or memories. It was a body that was no longer breathing. Some rerun of a crime show was on the tv, the lights of the room felt too bright and yet also too cold. I touched his frigid hand, prayed and silently sat there in case he wanted a presence on whatever journey he was on. Eventually I left, checked for family again and finding none went back to bed. There was no drama, no grand farewell and yet all these years later I can picture it with clear detail.

In church ministry I witnessed death many times. In fact, there was a summer when I was privileged to be next to several women as they took their last breaths and that was part of a re-prioritizing I went through which resulted in me leaving pastoral ministry to be a stay at home mom for a time. Then there was the time I sat next to my friend and looked into her eyes as they lost focus and her body stopped. Each of these moments plus many more have made an impact on me in deep and profound ways.

Still I am human and the anxiety, fear and harsh reality of death creeps in even when I try to shut it out. Last Lent I found myself thinking about death more than I wanted to. The Parkland, Florida school shooting filled me with sadness, despair, grief, rage, guilt and anxiety and as I walked the Lenten journey I let myself bring to surface all kinds of worries and troubles. So I decided to attend an adult forum at church about death. We read Tom Long's What Happens When We Die and it was great. I actually took a class in seminary called Death and Dying and we read some great books including Stanley Hauerwas' God, Medicine and Suffering but Tom Long's book was so concise, direct and honest plus it hit me at the right time so I put it up there with my top book recommendations. Even so, I would say what helped me the most during that class was the conversation. I loved hearing the older members of the class share their thoughts about death and through their strength, honesty and hope I found the clarity and peace I was looking for.

Of course that doesn't mean I don't have those nights when uncertainty, anxiety and fear creep in, but my abiding hope and faith get me to the sunrise. So maybe that is what I will share with my son. The fear, anxiety, sadness are all human and important to be honest about and express. He will have his own experiences and journey and hopefully he will teach me the wisdom and insights he gains along the way. What I can offer him is a place to process, a listening ear and a faith and hope to bring him peace and rest for a new day.

A Projection Project

The other day an email was sent to the church from a person saying they were leaving the church because of some things the priest said in his sermon. Two important things to note: no one remembers seeing this person in church in the last couple of years; my husband, the current priest, likely arrived after this person stopped attending, and he definitely never said the things this person believes they heard. This was a mere passing topic of conversation at the dinner table and not a major crisis or anything like that, but it did remind me of something that I really struggled with in ministry … and in life: losing control of people's perceptions of you.

At my last appointment (what we Methodists call churches where the Bishop assigns us) I remember going to a Clergy Day Apart a few months after I started, I had walked into a bit of a tumultuous situation at that church and so I was hanging on to every piece of wisdom, direction or advice I could get. So when Bishop Bruce Ough talked about perfectionists I was all ears. He said that perfectionists try to control the way others perceive them. Yes! That was/is/sometimes is me.

Trying to make sure everyone sees you in a positive light is incredibly frustrating and difficult in any role, and I felt this particularly in a public role as pastor. There was at least one person who would not even set foot in the church they had attended for years because there is an F instead of an M next to gender on my driver's license. The other thing that makes this even trickier for me is my need for honesty, being real. I am very vulnerable in sermons, newsletter articles, small groups, etc. For me sermons come from the places where I see Holy Spirit and life intersecting and often that involves sharing stories and feelings from my life. So sometimes I leave situations feeling weird, as if I overshared and lost sight of how I was being perceived by others.

There are times, when despite our best efforts at being likable people just don't like us. I have certainly had these experiences and I tell myself it doesn't matter, I tell myself it does not change who I am but it still doesn't feel good. There was a person in a congregation I pastored that said untrue things about me. I trusted this person and when I found out they were telling people these things about me it hurt. As a pastor I always try to love people and be careful with my words so I pushed away the temptation to talk badly about them right back or say the angry things I was saying in my head.

There was no happy, picture-perfect resolution to that situation as much as I tried for one and I have no idea how many people still think those bad things about me, but … I'm ok. There have been more personal and painful rejections in my life and in the end I survived them all. One day as I was driving home from work contemplating some church conflict or something I was listening to a book on CD by Eckhart Tolle and the thoughts spinning in my head came to a crashing halt when I heard these words “you are more than other people's projections of you.” I can't tell you how many times I have repeated those words to myself.

I am back in ministry now, although in a very different way. Now I am quarter time and not the person in charge of running the whole church, but I am so glad to have those lessons in my toolbox now. Especially in such divisive times.

I listened to this podcast the other day called On Being by Krista Tippett and it was a conversation (yes an actual conversation) between Sally Kohn, a liberal pundit, and Erik Erikson, a conservative pundit. It was the most refreshing thing I have heard in a long time. These people on opposite sides of so many issues were able to reveal their hearts, their experiences, their beliefs and find goodness in the other. They were able to shed all of the projections put on them for a moment and talk. So many times we think we know someone because of what they believe or how they vote. We project onto them all of our fears, our frustrations, our heartache and passion and under all of those projections the actual human person can no longer be seen. Maybe it is time to start throwing away the projections, the emotionally charged emails, the nasty comments and really try to see each other.

4 am

Suddenly someone in my dream is crying. My brain switches off sleep mode and it takes me a minute to realize I am in reality again and the crying is across the hall. Eyes barely able to open I stumble into my four-year-old's bedroom. He had a bad dream and he is shaking and sweaty. I climb into his bed and pull the puppy dog comforter onto both of us. He lays his head on me and wraps his arms desperately around me. I kiss his forehead and whisper reassuring words. His warm body nuzzles onto mine and his soft, fine hair tickles my chin. He lifts his sleepy head and gently places a tiny soft kiss on my cheek. After a whispered “I love you mommy” he stops shaking and I feel his body relax and sink into sweeter dreams. I enjoy a few minutes of snuggles before climbing into my own bed. Now I am awake. Often after one of my kids wakes me up in the night I can't sleep because my mind floods with things I need to do or remember, but this time is different. I look at the clock … 4 am.

4 am … that hour that has no sound, only the deep silence of a world lost in hidden caverns of the brain called sleep. The sun has not yet given signs of rising and yet the newness of night is wearing away. I find myself remembering other 4 ams in my life. I close my eyes and remember 4 am in the rocking chair. A baby nursing until sleep overcomes and the milk drips down his tiny chin that is red and bumpy from teething drool. I remember looking out the window at darkened windows and a still city, hearing nothing but deep silence. I remember softly setting him in his crib, pausing for a moment of marvel before going back to bed. I remember waking up and knowing that while the world slept I put a special memory deep into my heart.

Then I start to remember 4 ams from many years before. I remember walking down a different hallway into a different darkened bedroom, tapping my mother on the shoulder and the next thing I know I am scooped up and taken care of. She sits in the rocking chair, whispers assuring words and rocks me until the fever releases me into dreamland. I even remember that the old TV was on, it was that weird digital video of “Money for Nothing” and honestly that song still makes me nostalgic. I don't remember how long that sickness lasted but I do remember that love and care.

It's 4 am and I am walking down a different darkened hallway. A hallway just as familiar as that of my home. It is the church where I was baptized and spent Sunday mornings and Wednesday evenings. Where I cried when my mom left me in the nursery and played tic tac toe on unfolded offering envelopes in the balcony. My parents were the youth leaders which meant that even though I was still a small child I was at the youth group lock-in. After hours of running around giggling and avoiding Nerf darts I am tired. I turn the door handle. The room is empty except for my dad in a rocking chair watching Young Frankenstein. He was chaperoning the under used movie room which was a place of dark stillness in the midst of a church full of hyper teenagers. I climbed onto his lap, I remember being a little scared of the movie, and burying my face into his shoulder. I don't remember how much sleep I got that night but I do remember the way it felt to find a place of comfort and love in the dark stillness of night.

As my mind replays these images I tell myself to hurry up and fall asleep before my 6:45 am alarm goes off. But I have this pit in my stomach. The memories of love and warmth have not made me feel warm and cozy but rather some kind of deep ache in my stomach. My parents have recently turned 70 and I am now the age they were when they held me on those dark nights. Some day my boys will be on their own, out in the world and finding their own special 4 am memories. It is that ache that comes with the awareness of time, the sudden ability to see the vast space between our days and the knowledge of love so deep it hurts.

I picked up my son from school yesterday and he showed me a worksheet with apples, ants, alligators and the letter A colored green and red. My youngest is doing worksheets in school. More so than his first day of pre-K this made me realize how much he has grown. He is learning independently from me and preparing for the world. I start to feel that ache but I also feel such joy in seeing his confidence and abilities. Time is passing, but I get to watch and while I put away these memories deep into my heart I also get some souvenirs along the way. So I will keep that waxy worksheet and know that I have it, even at 4 am, as proof of this beautiful life I get to witness.

Questions Worth Asking

I was following my kids through the aisles of the kid's area at our library when I overheard a conversation happening next to me. Based on what I heard, my guess is the two women having the conversation are in a Bible study of some sort together and one is the teacher and the other one is new to it. The teacher announced that she had looked into the questions the other had asked and had the answers for her. At this point my kids had discovered that the library has CDs so they were occupied with that. I leaned in a bit to hear more of the women's conversation and noticed it followed a pattern. The teacher would say “you asked this … and here is the answer.” The first question was “how do we know the Bible is true” which was met with some scripture citations and talk about faith. I found myself really wanting to interject to affirm the questioner. I sensed her getting quieter with each answer and wished I could say “these are really thoughtful and good questions.” I believe that thinking critically and asking questions is a sign of a healthy, living faith and a genuine attempt to integrate one's practice of religion with one's lived faith. It was even harder to mind my own business when I heard the next question, “do we have to believe that all people of other religions will go to hell?” At that moment I looked up in horror … because both of my kids were proudly showing me their selections … Kidz Bop CDs.

I felt for the woman with the questions because I too have had those questions and still have questions. I love digging into the Bible, wrestling with it and deepening my faith. I am energized by conversations on theology and reflecting with others about life, faith and religion. I also remember how I felt when I was told that there was one clear answer to the question about people of other religions. I felt confused, upset, silenced and unsatisfied.

I grew up in a very open-minded, non-judgmental United Methodist Church and I remember when I asked my pastor during confirmation class why bad things happen to good people he sat with me in that question, affirmed me for asking it and never tried to silence me or offer easy answers. That was everything to me and it laid the foundation for my adult faith and my calling into ministry. But when I went to college I started to hear views that did not match mine but were labeled as the “Christian way.” I heard this at the church I worked at as a youth leader, the Christian groups on campus I explored, the staff on the mission trips I went on and also from people in my religion classes who weren't Christian. Those who weren't Christian labeled and identified a certain belief set as Christian and ripped it apart. I never doubted my faith or my commitment to the Church, but I did wonder where I fit.

Then I found a place where I fit. My first week at Drew Theological School was everything I hoped for and more than I thought possible. The deep questions were not just ok, they were necessary. People from all different backgrounds and with different beliefs were wrestling together with these topics and then kneeling down for Communion together. And when I signed up to go to India and met Dr. Ariarajah I finally found someone taking on the question of other religions in a way that was loving, honest, sincere, open and deep.

In his book Not Without My Neighbor Dr. Ariarajah talks about growing up in Sri Lanka and the close relationship he had with his neighbor. They welcomed him into their family practices of Hindu worship and while he was Christian this never seemed to be a problem. When he heard a missionary talking about people of other faiths going to hell and that heaven is a place only for Christians, he felt he didn't want to go there, he didn't want to go to this eternal resting place without his loving neighbors that he knew were good people. This began his exploration of a theology of religions, or how we as Christians can stay true to our own beliefs while also making sense of our relationship with our brothers and sisters of other faiths.

The idea of God tossing away wonderful and loving people into an eternal fire did not match with my understanding of a loving and compassionate God and I was so relieved to hear that there are other ways of looking at things theologically. Dr. Ariarajah explores the challenges and the possibilities through dialogue, scripture, Christian tradition and personal spiritual experiences. And in the end does not offer an easy answer but rather a path of honest exploration and deep faith questions.

All of this is to say what I did not say to that woman in the library … faith is a dynamic, living, enduring thing and if you ever want to explore those questions … I promise you aren't alone.   

Teddy Bear Picnics and Snoring Cathedrals

Every Sunday I worship in a great big beautiful stone church with breathtaking stained glass windows and an immaculately kept yard. One of the challenges of worshiping in a place like this is that you can't tell from the outside that there are actually people inside. The city has strict rules about hanging banners and so the church is left with small signs on the doors to let people know there are things happening there. It is a challenge to let people know it is a vibrant, welcoming congregation inside that intimidating building.

I thought about this on my recent pilgrimage to England. We toured many great big beautiful stone churches with breathtaking stained glass windows. Inside these cathedrals was a constant stream of tourists with cameras out as they half listened to tour guides. I wondered how these churches make the connection for people between the beautiful architecture and the lived mission and worship of Jesus Christ. As I kept watch for these connections and signs of life in the cold dark buildings I noticed some really beautiful things happening.

Like when my husband and I entered St. Peter Mancroft in Norwich and found ourselves in the midst of a teddy bear picnic. Two very friendly older women welcomed us, asked us where we were from and how our trip was going. They then told us stories from the church's past and present. One of the ladies let tears fall as she told us of their last priest's sudden departure. The whole time they were talking they were taping together little green paper teddy bears to hide around the worship space. They invited us to have a seat on the carpet and join the many running toddlers and chatting parents for juice boxes and games but as this was a rare time away from our little ones we declined. We left feeling welcomed and inspired by the Spirit's movement in that big stone building.

The choir I was traveling with (but not singing with) sang evensong in Norwich Cathedral four evenings that week. Each time I was in awe as I stepped into those ancient pews occupied by monks and bishops of the past and looked up to the boss coated ceiling that seemed to stretch for a mile. As I settled in and followed the words of worship I noticed the tourists that stopped, listened and sat down. I noticed the regular worshipers who prayed passionately as they knelt. I got to know the kind and welcoming clergy with fascinating stories of their own. And that cathedral became so much more than the Instagram pictures I posted.

On a free day in London my husband and I stopped at a market to buy an overpriced bobby teddy bear for our youngest and then wandered into the open church door behind it. We were in St. James Piccadilly and it was a welcome break for our feet after a day of roaming the city. We sat in a pew and as I looked at the light coming through stained glass I heard something. It took me a minute to identify the sound. It was soothing and quiet. I turned to my left and saw about twenty rows of pews with feet sticking out. The church welcomed homeless people to sleep in the pews and the sounds of snores and deep sleep breathing enriched my prayers and soothed my soul.

Our final worship experience was at the majestic St. Paul's Cathedral in London. The crowd was large and I found myself sandwiched between several different languages as my eyes worked to take in so much beauty. When the organ played and the visiting choir sang it filled the massive space perfectly. The gold colored leaves seemed to become animated by the music. The echo off the high ceiling forced the preacher to speak slowly but when we prayed in unison it sounded like thousands more. It was the feast day of Mary Magdalene and as the sermon and scriptures told of the apostle to the apostles it felt fitting with the crowd of people from all over the world prepared to carry the message back to the places they were from. Passing the peace was a little awkward from some as you could tell it was not something they were used to but I loved getting to offer them and all these new people around me “peace.”

Peace is what I felt as it was passed to me and it is what I felt when I walked into those great big stone buildings. Peace from the beautiful carvings and art around me and peace from the active presence of the Holy Spirit in each place and person we met.

Milk

     In the late 14^th century a woman on the brink of death had visions she believed to be from God. Later she would devote her life to a small cell next to a church where she would write and reflect on these visions. Last week I went and sat in that cell. It is simple, quiet and at the time, empty. In order to get there I walked through St. Julian's Anglican Church and through a door off the main worship space. Because her name is unknown, she has been given the name of Julian, the patron saint of the church where she lived and worshiped.

     So there I sat, in the cell of Julian of Norwich. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. As my feet rested and my spirit relaxed I looked for an image in my heart. I wanted to channel some of that same spirit that revealed such beautiful and profound images to her. What I saw was my breastfeeding child. It was a memory of sitting up in the middle of the night with my newborn and marveling at how his tiny jaw move up and down, his body calmed and his belly filled with what my body provided him. A memory of how it felt to be so connected and to be so satisfied in mutually fulfilling each others need. A memory of that mix of instinct, love, relationship and human dependency.

     I thought of this and I understood what Julian meant when she wrote of feeding from the breast of Christ. When I first read these words I was in seminary and had never had the experience of babies, but of course I am a human and know what it means to be hungry and fed. The words surprised me, touched me and stayed with me until 12 years later I sat in her cell with my eyes closed and my breath slowed.

The mother can give her child to suck of her milk, but our precious Mother Jesus can feed us with himself, and does, most courteously and most tenderly, with the blessed sacrament, which is the precious food of true life … The mother can lay her child tenderly to her breast, but our tender Mother Jesus can lead us easily into his blessed breast through his sweet open side, and show us there a part of the godhead and of the joys of heaven, with inner certainty of endless bliss … This fair lovely word 'mother' is so sweet and so kind in itself that it cannot truly be said of anyone or to anyone except of him and to him who is the true Mother of life and of all things. To the property of motherhood belong nature, love, wisdom and knowledge, and this is God.

(Julian of Norwich: Showings Translated by Colledge, Edmund and Walsh, James, 1978, page 298-299)

     Sitting in her cell with my sweet memories before me, I understood the beautiful connection she expresses between Christ and humans, the deep love, sharing and vulnerability in the act of self-giving and being fed. I also felt deeply understood as this simple and beautiful act that my body did was held up, made holy, celebrated and revealed as a means of knowing Christ.

     Two days later our group had the privilege of a talk from Dr. Brian Thorne, a professor of psychotherapy and expert on Julian of Norwich. He talked about the human need for validation, to be heard and seen. He looked at the ways in which Julian does this for people through her writings of God's radical love, grace and acceptance. As I was listening it occurred to me that this woman who wrote about God almost 700 years ago, a woman without a name who wrote the first book ever written in English by a female, has amazingly connected with people and provided a space outside of dominant male metaphors for Christians to feel seen, understood and deeply loved. At a time when any kind of feminization of men is still seen as degrading and humiliating by society we have the image of Jesus as mother and it is powerful, endearing, strong and deep.  A reminder that our experiences of God are valid, Jesus's sustaining milk is for all of us and powerful things happen when we share the ways in which God has revealed God's self in our lives.

     And so, I opened my eyes. I walked over to the table with little candles for prayers. I looked upon Julian's statue and said a prayer for my dear friend struggling with cancer. She is a mother and the pain of seeing her children worry about her, the fears of not being able to provide for them are at times overwhelming. So I lit the candle and left it there because I knew Julian would understand. I knew too that our loving Mother Jesus hears our prayers in a way that is deep, loving and real.

Three Years

It’s June 29 and I’m thinking about Laura.  It has been three years since I watched her breath leave her body. This is a day that holds a lot of emotion and meaning for me.  She encouraged me to blog and was so supportive of my writing and yet, three years later I barely blog.  I could give a million reasons why, not the least of which is the current political climate that leaves me with so many emotions and thoughts it is difficult to sit down in quiet and put anything into words.  Another reason is because I have gotten out of the habit of constant public vulnerability.  I used to preach every Sunday and anyone who has heard one of my sermons can tell you I get pretty vulnerable.  Now I preach about four times per year.  I am not used to putting myself out there like that all the time.  Now I put myself out there with close friends at a play group or a conversation with a lifetime friend or a book group where I have built trust.  But I still think vulnerability is so important and Laura modeled it so well.  She put herself out there over and over again.  She revealed her heart, her fears, her joys, her frustrations and it connected with more people than she ever knew. 

I have been thinking about her vulnerability lately, particularly with her children.  She loved them and protected them so fiercely up until that last breath.  She poured her heart into them and gave us all a glimpse as she shared pieces of the tough conversations at the end.  I will never forget when she wrote about telling them she was going to die.  I remember the way her struggled breathing, the painful sounds of death all slowed down when I told her that they were ok and cared for.  I told her that they said good bye and were doing ok and immediately her breathing slowed and within minutes it stopped.  The tear that streamed down her cheek as the hospice nurse commented on the photo of them next to her bed.  She never stopped opening her heart even when it hurt so much.

I have been thinking about this as I face that struggle every parent faces of learning how to let go a little each day and allow your children to be the independent wonderful people they are created to be.  I sobbed after I dropped off my oldest at kindergarten and prayed to God to help me turn off the news images of school shootings playing through my mind when I tried to fall asleep.  These things take an emotional toll on parents today.  Images of scared teens running to their parents and separated children crying at the border can make us want to hold on tight to our littles and never let go. 

Soon I am traveling out of the country and it will be the longest I have ever been away from my kids.  For months I have been thinking of things to tell their grandma who will be caring for them: remind the oldest to practice piano, don’t let the youngest eat too much sugar, they will want to sleep in the same room but only let them every couple of nights because they won’t sleep, they need this kind of lotion after a bath, etc.  I find myself thinking “maybe I should think of somewhere they can go in the event of a wildfire.”  It’s too much and for goodness sakes it’s only ten days! 

The truth is we have to learn to let go whether we want to or not because these children do not belong to us.  They are these wonderful little people preparing to take on this great big world and make it better than we ever could.  I remember when I had my first baby, people would say “he’s beautiful” and I would say “I know, it’s amazing!”  I soon learned that the proper response is “thank you.”  Thank you felt weird because to me he was so clearly created by God and I was just lucky enough to be part of that.  Why would I say thank you for a compliment not for me but for this amazing little human? 

We live in a world where we do need to be cautious.  We need to know who is with our child and are they safe.  We need to know where our children are and take time to connect with them, hear what they are feeling and offer them guidance.  At the same time, we need to trust.

Laura had to do that hard thing and trust her most precious gifts to the care of others and to God.  And now they are still completely wonderful. 

It has been three years since she died.  I remember the sounds and smells of that hospice room, the look in her eye before it unfocused, the feel of the tears down my cheek and the realization of what an amazing life and death I had just been given the privilege to witness.  It’s been three years since she died, a lot has changed but I am still unpacking all of the things I learned from her.

Today is also my nephew’s birthday.  Five years ago I got a text message with a picture of a baby in a rainbow shirt.  A rainbow baby- a beautiful gift from God after much sadness and loss.  Hope after despair.  June 29 is a special day for me.  It holds together loss, joy, love, sadness, death and birth.  It seems that the best way to acknowledge all of these things is to be vulnerable.

We did it.

     When I was little my mom told me that I could be anything I want to be. I breathed a sigh of relief and said “good! Because I want to be Mickey Mouse.” I appreciate that I was taught to think big and that the world is full of opportunities. I hope my children will also know that they can be anything they want to be and that I will support them in that. However, I also wonder about the pressure of potentials.

     I have often seen people in their twenties struggle to settle into an occupation and part of this is due to the vastness of possibilities. Every decision eliminates other possibilities. Every pathway we choose means that there are these other potentials that will go unused. This can create a lot of pressure in deciding on a career but also I think it can make it difficult to feel satisfied in the ordinariness of everyday.

     Last week we were talking about this in the women's book group I am in. The book we are reading invites us to seek out the holiness and beauty in the ordinary, and one of the things that came up in our discussion was the sense of disappointment that can come with the ordinary. Many of us were told we could be anything and that we could be great. We wanted to change the world and then here we are brushing our teeth, doing laundry and listening to people complain. It can make us feel like our lives are a disappointment, a waste of potential. Like we should be doing bold brave things all the time.

     I feel this way about school shootings. I desperately want my children to be safe at school and I feel like I am failing them. I have joined advocacy groups, gone to rallies, shared what I believe can make a difference but it feels like not enough. It feels like I should be able to come up with something better, I should be able to use all of my potential, my intelligence, my skills to fix this problem for these little people who depend on me.

     At the Wednesday night Bible study I attend we watched a documentary on the week we were between two books of the Bible and it was about how physicians handle talking to others about death. One of the things I thought was very revealing and heart-breaking was when these extremely accomplished and hard-working doctors shared that every time they had to tell someone that there was nothing else that could be done and that the disease would kill them, they felt like it was a personal failure. These doctors shared that every time, no matter how often, they had to look at a patient and say that the treatment is not working and they were out of options they looked at it as them failing the patient. It's no wonder there is a high rate of suicide among those in the medical profession.

     I was thinking about this as I sat on a bench talking with my friend about what is next in life. We both have been stay at home moms for years and are starting to feel like it's time for a change. As I have personally reflected on this I have felt a mix of emotions. I feel excited but also I have felt sad that the days of having my kids with me all day are ending. I have felt nostalgic about all the great things we have done and their baby days. I have looked at myself and wondered why I struggle sometimes with being home lately. I have focused on my faults and the things I thought I would do or accomplish but have not. But when I was talking to my friend I had this thought … we did it. I knew there would be challenges when I made this decision. There were some really difficult times (babies that did not sleep, PPD, winter days stuck in the house on end, temper tantrums, etc.) but we did it.

     So often I focus on what I am not doing, what I should be doing, what I could be doing and so rarely do I say to myself “I did it.” I believe that expecting more from ourselves is good and we should always push ourselves to be better and do great things, but weighty expectations and feelings of disappointment are stifling and rarely inspire great actions. Also we are just people, it's good for us to realize our limits and dependency on relationships with others and on God.

     I look at the people around me and I am amazed at the wonderful things they have done or are doing even as I hear them saying they feel like they haven't done enough. I rarely extend that same amazement to myself and my own accomplishments (except the other day when, after my children and husband begged me to play and after many many losses I actually took first place in one level of Sonic All Star Racing and I celebrated my accomplishment excessively and exhaustively).

     Today I got the kids fed and ready for school, I brushed my teeth, made the beds, led morning prayer at the church, participated in book group and have now managed to find a quiet place for a bit of reflection before preschool pick up. Yet I am disappointed in myself for missing my gym time. My hair is a mess, my car smells from old snacks shoved in seats, my shirt is super wrinkled and there are huge problems in the world I have done nothing to help, but for just a minute I'm going to pat myself on the back because even though I am not (yet) Mickey Mouse … I've done and been part of some great things and I'm doing ok.

"Spoiler Alert" Sermon from 4/8/18

Preached at Grace and St. Stephen's Episcopal Church

John 20:19-31

     It was a Friday night and my husband was out of town so I told the kids we could have a slumber party in the downstairs. After much excited hopping and giggles we began our preparations. They grabbed their sleeping bags, pillows and about 20 of their favorite stuffed animals. Together we pushed the coffee table out of the way and created a cozy space for us. I brought down snacks, drinks and the carefully selected movie of choice: Trolls. Teeth were brushed, jammies selected and snuggly positions taken.

     Trolls is everything a kid's movie should be: bright, colorful, sparkly, loud and full of dancing, singing and silliness. It's also a movie - and like almost every movie it builds tension and conflict. We learn that the Trolls are in a far away hidden place because the bad, mean, sad, scary people called the Bergens would like to eat them if they find them. My kids were happily enjoying the pop tunes, rainbows and cute figures until things started to get a little scary. At this point my six year old asks me to please turn it off. “It's too scary mommy. I don't like this movie.” I tell him it will be fine, it's fun, let's keep watching. His pleas become more urgent and heart felt “Please mommy. I don't want to watch this. I can't. Please turn it off!” His little brother joins in “It's too scary. Turn it off.” I hug them and tell them it's a kids' movie, it will be fine. I even promise them that I know it will all end happily. They look at me with angst, doubt and disbelief. I tell them “let's eat some pizza and enjoy the movie. I'm right here with you. It's going to be ok.” They continue to ask me to turn it off until eventually they are so captivated by the movie that they stop and go back to shaking in excitement at the tense scenes and cracking up at the silly jokes.

     That was about a month ago. They now have listened to the soundtrack so many times they know most of the words. They get excited when they see merchandise with the characters, they told their dad how great the movie was and list it among their favorites. And last week at a play date they watched it again with their friends and have no recollection of the horror, dread and faint-heartedness it created just a month ago.

     It's the in between time that got them. The beginning is all possibilities, excitement and newness, then comes the hard part- when you don't know which way it will go -the uncertainty, the questions, the doubts, the pain and sadness. The end will come, but it seems doubtful and far away.

     When we enter the story in today's Gospel that's where the disciples are, the in between time. The beginning was full of miracles, healings, teachings and the constant security of Jesus who was with them. When things pointed toward Jerusalem it changed. Darkness, dread, fear, doubt, pain, anguish and now loneliness. They are standing around in a locked room because they are scared. Jesus died a terrible death. They know that insult, pain and perhaps even death await them.

     Sure, Jesus told them all of this would happen. He explained again and again that he must die and be raised again. He even gave them a specific timeline, but now they aren't so sure. It seems impossible, distant, maybe even unlikely. Until he comes. In that room with the locked doors, after he was killed on the cross, after he was put into the tomb, among those he preached to who now hide in fear . . . He comes.

     This is it. The part he told us was coming. This is the ending that was promised. He tried again and again to reassure us, but our doubts, our fears, our inability to comprehend made the words slip right from our grasp. Through the darkness of Lent, the tears of Good Friday … this end, the resurrection, was coming but it was hard to see.

     Some days I want to lock myself in a room and hide in fear like those disciples. Almost two months ago I sat in these very pews and wished I could hide in fear. You see it was February 15, the day after the children were killed in their school in Florida. When I heard about it my stomach hurt but the next morning after I left my children at school it got worse. The stories, the lists of all the school shootings, the emotional social media posts … the fear- it chipped away at my soul. My mind went to that dark place that it sometimes tries to go at night, but I try not to let it … Sandy Hook and what happened to all those little children. I thought of the shelter in place drills my son does with his fellow kindergartners. I thought of how hard it is to leave them, to send them out into this world with strength, courage and assurance. I felt overwhelmed. I was volunteering in the church office and when I do that I come over into this space and put the children's bulletins and welcoming pamphlets out on the tables at the entrances. That day I paused. I sat down in this big space lit only by sunlight filtered through holy glass images. I poured out my heart, I confessed my fears, I prayed for answers, direction, hope, courage … for the sinking feeling in my gut to subside. I looked upon Mary. She gets it. She understands what it's like to send your child into a scary world, to watch them suffer and feel helpless.

     Pain, fear, death, darkness, doubt. It's all part of life in between. In between our innocent childhoods and our final resurrection with Christ. We know what the Bible says, Jesus promises that the death and darkness are not the end, but sometimes it just seems like it is. Sometimes we plead and beg: “make it stop!” “turn it off!” “it's too scary” “I can't do it.” Jesus assures us that he is here, that it will be ok. But it's scary.

     But today we are here. The lights are on, the flowers are blooming, the hymns are joyful and the Alleluias are flowing because our human limitations are no match for Jesus. The cross, the heavy rock at the tomb, the locked doors, the fearful hearts, the disbelief, our limited minds, our fears, our inability to comprehend, our forgetful hearts do not stop Jesus. He is risen. He has broken through. He is with us and he brings peace.

     Jesus got through every kind of barrier meant to keep him out. He got through and he breathed on them. He breathes on them and he says “Peace be with you.” Take a deep breath with me. It's that same recycled air that the disciples breathed in that room. That same air infused with the Holy Spirit, that same breath Jesus left us when he said “receive the Holy Spirit.”

     It's ok if you don't get it the first time. Look at Thomas. He needed proof and he was right there with Jesus. It's ok if your heart is afraid or future hope seems far away. It's ok because Jesus breathed on us the Holy Spirit and that same breath is here for you.

     When pain breaks your heart, when loss closes your throat, when tears soak your cheeks, when the fear chips away at your confidence and hopelessness shakes your core. Breathe. Jesus is here, he has promised us and shown us the ending and it will be ok. When the nights are long and the frustrations pile up. When the brokenness of others and the world goes beyond your pack of band-aids. Breathe. Jesus is here, he has promised us and shown us the ending and it will be ok. When we realize our inability to protect those we love, when we fail at life, when the shame steals our voice. Breathe. Jesus is here, he has promised us and shown us the ending and it will be ok. Receive the Holy Spirit. Know that Jesus has left us his peace and it is attainable for even the doubting mind.

     At the end of the Gospel reading it says, “But these are written so that you may come to believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that through believing you may have life in his name.” This story is for you. It was written down so that we can have the peace of Christ, even as we live in the in between. And we can have life, joyful, hopeful, peace-filled life in the name of the one who breaks through the tomb, the locked doors and the closed minds.

     I suppose I should title this sermon “Spoiler Alert.” Because I'm giving away the end of the story. Turns out the Trolls do not all get captured and eaten by the Bergens. The end of the animated movie is not a multi-colored blood bath of high-pitched despair and glittery tears. Love wins, courage prevails, hope is realized and the music is chipper.

     Another spoiler. The Jesus story does not end at the cross. It does not end with the tears of a hopeless mother, the pounding hearts of terrified disciples and unfulfilled promises. The tomb is empty. Death is not the final word. Peace prevails into eternity. So breathe deeply the peace of Christ.

     I want to leave you with this poem. It came from the last book by Rachel Held Evans that our Tuesday women's book group read and it was and is exactly what I need to hear. It is a quote from Saint Teresa of Avila:

Let nothing upset you,

Let nothing startle you.

All things pass;

God does not change.

Patience wins all it seeks.

Whoever has God lacks nothing:

God alone is enough.

St. Anskar

My Lenten blog post for the Episcopal Diocese of Colorado
 http://faith.episcopal.co/resources/blog/

Inside a "dead church"

In the Tuesday morning women's book group I attend we cover a lot of topics both light and heavy. It is a varied group as far as religious background goes and there are a number of women in the group that have recently come to the Episcopal Church from more fundamentalist/literalist Christian traditions.  It has been a learning experience for me as they share both their positive and negative stories of what it's like to live in a more conservative church.  I was having a conversation with one of these women after group and we were talking about when people find dissonance between their personal beliefs and the church, for example if a gay man realizes the church he is active in believes homosexuality is a sin.  I asked, "why don't they just go to a mainline church?"  She hesitated as I'm sure it's not an easy answer and said "we are told those are "dead churches."  Oh, right, yeah .... I have heard that before.  In fact my Episcopal priest husband grew up in a Pentecostal church that talked about those "dead churches" with the hymnals and pews. 

Growing up this was not a concept I was familiar with.  I grew up in a very loving moderate United Methodist Church.  My family was close with the pastor, actually I think everyone in the church would probably say they were.  I went to Sunday School every Sunday, youth club on Wednesdays and when I was a child and my parents lead the teenage youth group I went along to countless retreats, rallies and mission trips.  We had hymnals, we had pews, we had potlucks, we had sacraments and creeds, but I never in my life would have thought of it as "dead."  

Today I am raising my kids in a great big, beautiful, stone Episcopal Church with an organ, hymnals, stained glass windows, creeds and even a little chanting and incense on occasion.  We live in a city that some consider to be a hub for the mega church.  Focus on the Family is headquartered here and New Life and all it's branches are here plus tons of Christian organizations are based here like Compassion International, Young Life, etc.  I feel pretty confident that some people may look upon the pointy stone tower and think "dead church."  

Here's the truth, there are certainly some mainline congregations that might in some ways fit this description.  There are churches that have become merely a gathering place for one or two families holding onto the past and watching the doors close before they relent to giving up power or allowing change.  There are some clergy who see "traditional" as an excuse to phone it in and put little effort toward innovation or excellent worship.  Yes, they do exist.

However, I grew up in a mainline church, I worked in four mainline churches (two as an ordained United Methodist pastor), supplied in 15-20 mainline churches (supply means fill in on a Sunday for clergy when they go on vacation), been involved with the five mainline churches my husband as worked in and attended countless others and I can say with full certainty they are not "dead" churches.

It's hard and not helpful or honest to attempt to speak for an entire denomination let alone a collection of several denominations (the term mainline usually encompasses several historic denominations like United Methodist, Episcopal, Presbyterian Church USA, Evangelical Lutheran Church of America, Congregational, etc.).  I can only speak to my own experiences and from my own perspective.  

Sometimes I feel like mainliners are so careful about not offending others or excluding others or seeming to put down others that we rarely go to bat for ourselves.  I in no way intend to put down others and am not looking to compare, but rather give a fair hearing to the hymnal users of the world.  And of course, not all mainliners use hymnals or organs.  In my own tradition there has been a push toward more "contemporary" forms of worship for a long time and it is not uncommon to walk into a United Methodist Church and find a pastor in jeans, a screen with lyrics and a drum set.

But this is my experience.  Sometimes we kneel.  I never did this growing up but now that I worship at an Episcopal Church I do it often and it feels good ... sort of.  I struggle to keep my knee from slipping down the kneeler forcing me to do a split when I am wearing tights.  I use different kinds of muscles to hold my lower back straight so my butt doesn't jut out and hit the pew and I frequently turn my head to check and make sure my little ones aren't climbing over pews or destroying those ribbon bookmarks in the hymnals.  But all of that effort makes me feel like my body is engaged in the prayer.  Kneeling feels like the position I want to take when I am urgent and passionate and humble in my requests to God.  And even though large displays of emotion tend to not be associated with more formal traditions, you will definitely see people crying as they kneel in prayer.  Every Sunday.  Sometimes it's me.  

We pass the peace.  I definitely use hand sanitizer afterwards during flu season but I love the chance to look people in the eye and acknowledge our presence to each other.  Christianity is incarnational.  We believe God took on flesh in Jesus Christ.  So it seems natural that flesh and bones Christians would be part of our worship experience. 

The hymns are pretty old and so is the organ.  I am no organ expert.  In fact, when my husband was listening to tons of organ pieces as part of his search for a new church organist I couldn't tell one song apart from another (insert gasp from people at my church).  But I've never heard anything fill a space like an organ.  All the way up to the top of the high arched ceilings and all the way down the aisle is filled with the deep and full sound of the instrument.  And sometimes I sigh a bit when I see a hymn I don't know or one that people are struggling to sing has six verses.  But when I can shut off the noises in my head and focus on the words I am singing they move me to my core- the depth of theology, the timeless and beautiful metaphors.  Even if I only manage to fully pay attention to one verse, it makes me think and pulls my heart into my own (mediocre at best) singing.  

There is also something to be said for singing together as a congregation.  One year when I attended the annual gathering of conference clergy there was a band to lead the music and the words to newer Christian songs were on a screen while the hymnals were stored away somewhere.  The band was really good and the music was good.  I liked it.  However, it was made for a band, certain lines were repeated for emphasis by the lead singer, there were unexpected slows for emotion and no music to know when to go up and down with my voice.  Also, the instruments were too loud for me to hear anyone around me.  I realized that I really missed singing with the other clergy I was in covenant with.  I missed the feeling of hearing all our voices raised together to "O For A Thousand Tongues to Sing." I like joining my off pitch voice with fellow Christians around me,  I especially like it when my friend who is a professional opera singer is sitting next to me and making my weak voice blended with her strong one sound great.  

We say creeds and written prayers.  We also always have time for impromptu, personal prayers to be said aloud or quietly during "the prayers of the people."  Here's the thing ... I'm not comfortable with the amount of male pronouns used in the Nicene Creed or most hymns, and I am allowed to take my own liberties with those pronouns when I am in the pews (it's actually much clearer who we are referring to if God is God and Jesus is he), but these creeds are the most well thought out thing I will say all week (second only to the Lord's prayer).  Do you know how much time, thought, prayer, wisdom, intelligence and even bloodshed went into these statements of faith?  And I believe them.  They make me feel grounded, they remind me of where my faith is in a world of shouting voices and disagreement.  They also connect me to worshipers from the past 2,000 years.  

The sermons are great.  I know, I know, it's my husband usually preaching (or me which would make this paragraph incredibly annoying so let's exclude my sermons), but they are great.  The lectionary dictates what is preached on, which I find to be an incredible discipline.  You have to seek out what the spirit is saying and struggle and be challenged.  You can't skip things that don't fit with what you feel like saying and you get to dig in and research and wrestle with a chunk of text, not just one line.  The sermons are meant to provoke and challenge.  It is not a list of rules or judgments.  There is room for diversity (and believe me there is a lot of diversity of opinion in mainline churches).  Your experience, brain and heart are needed to complete the sermon.

We read a lot of scripture.  Sometimes a church will describe itself as "Bible based,"  I've never heard that used to describe an Episcopal Church but they read more scripture than any other denomination I have ever experienced.  And it's not just a line from here and a line from there, it's chunks.  Every Sunday you get: a Psalm, an Old Testament passage, an Epistle and a Gospel reading.  We stand for the Gospel because these are the words of Jesus.  We are encouraged to research, wrestle with, discuss and dig into the scripture.  My favorite part of seminary was my Bible classes.  If you dig into a passage it is amazing how it comes to life, opens up, moves you, challenges you and speaks to your soul.  

The people are amazing. So, when I started my second appointment, my first one as a solo pastor there was some conflict.  In fact, two months in I called my District Superintendent in tears saying I didn't know what to do (it only took two months to break my then #1 goal as a young woman pastor- do not cry!).  There was some heavy conflict.  One of the people I went head to head with became someone I treasure greatly.  We kept at it, we didn't walk away and after another month or two we were big supporters of each other ... and we did some great and creative ministry together.   People are difficult and sometimes newcomers are turned away by people believing each person is a reflection of the church's principles.  But we are a collection of sinners asking for forgiveness, frail humans depending on grace.  We are desperately trying to be better together with the Holy Spirit making that possible.  The people I worship with here do amazing things that you would not know about to just see them in the pews.  They start nonprofit organizations for at risk teens in the foster system, they volunteer with battered women, they nurse hospice patients to comfort, they feed the homeless, they work for justice and they live out the love and mercy of Jesus Christ no matter their occupation or situation.  I am so inspired by these repentant humans I share a kneeler with.

There is so much more to say, but no one likes blog posts that are too long ... well maybe my mom would.  Thanks for hanging in there with me for this subject that means so much to me.  I suppose it is my thank you note to those intimidating buildings with the big wooden doors, the hymnals with the worn out binding and the musicians using their gifts to help people like me lift beautiful prayers to God.  To the amazing people who have brought me to the faith.  The pastor who let me ask any questions I wanted in confirmation class, the mentors, prayer teams and generous souls who died and left their hard earned money to ensure these structures can stand.  The councils who wrote the creeds and preachers who stayed up wrestling with those tough passages.  The acolytes and altar guilds, those who sewed paraments and filled the baptismal fonts.  The Holy Spirit who keeps it all alive.